


and lose my heart on the burning sands

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Body Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Licking, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: “Fine. You have two minutes,” Eddie says, looking at the clock in the hall.“What, two minutes to lick you?” Richie asks, already kissing his way down Eddie’s chest. “You’re timing me?”“Yes,” Eddie tells him, firm. “You’re already five seconds down.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 182





	and lose my heart on the burning sands

Eddie throws his keys in the glass jar they keep by the door, and toes off his shoes. He catches his breath as he stands in the foyer, hands on his hips. He loves this feeling of coming back to Earth after a run, fresh off his lungs working at top capacity, heart still pounding but not in a distressed way, sweat dripping down his back, his temples as his skin starts to cool. There’s no other word for how he feels than _invigorated_. 

Glancing at his reflection in the hallway mirror, he winces. His hairline is matted with sweat; beads of it dot his forehead. His face is flushed and his neck is red. He doesn’t think he looks bad, but he does look disheveled and he feels ready for a shower, to strip off these sweat-damp clothes and get under some hot water and suds. To rinse himself clean, and then do his post-run shake. But to get clean first.

He walks toward the bathroom to do just that, and coming around the corner he sees Richie on the couch, a bowl of cereal on his knee. Richie’s got bedhead, and he’s in his sleep pants and an old Clash t-shirt that’s worn threadbare and looks soft. Eddie realizes Richie is watching him, quiet, an unreadable expression on his face, his ears turning pink.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Richie finally says, and eats some cereal. “Warm out there?”

Eddie pulls at the front of his shirt where it’s sticking to his skin with its special wicking material and fans himself a little with it. “Yeah, it is. I got out there as early as I could manage and it’s still pretty fucking gross. It’s July, whatever. I need to shower,” he says, and keeps walking, tugging his shirt off as he goes.

Richie sets his bowl down on the coffee table. “C’mere and kiss me first,” he says, and there’s something careful in his tone, something behind it. 

It pings Eddie’s curiosity, but even so, he sighs, conscious of how sweaty he is, and steps closer to bend down for a soft smack on the lips. Just as he’s about to pull away, Richie reaches out to touch his side, catching Eddie off balance a little, and kisses his neck, which is slick with perspiration. It’s a noisy, wet kiss. Richie wraps his other arm around Eddie and kisses along his hairline, as Eddie makes a sound of frustration and attempts to pull away. “Rich. I’m gross, let me take a shower.”

“You’re not gross,” Richie protests, lips against his skin. He licks him, in a broad swipe of his tongue. Eddie goes still for a moment, then gasps and tries to pull away again. Richie pulls him closer, his tongue finding the dip in his collarbone. It tickles, and he shivers. “C’mon, babe.”

“Richie,” Eddie complains, feeling his skin flush hot again, in a different way now. “Richie. I have to shower.”

“Just let me—” Richie’s hands slide over his sides and down, dipping in the sweat that’s pooled in the small of his back, his mouth practically sucking up the perspiration that’s a sheen over the side of his neck.

“Fine. You have two minutes,” Eddie says, looking at the clock in the hall.

“What, two minutes to lick you?” Richie asks, already kissing his way down Eddie’s chest. “You’re timing me?”

“Yes,” Eddie tells him, firm. “You’re already five seconds down.”

“All right, you little freak,” Richie says. Eddie’s half-standing, and Richie’s kissing his way down his slick stomach now, sinking to the floor with some difficulty, but no less enthusiastic as his tongue laps up the sweat in the hollow of his navel, sucking at his skin with wet squelching eager sounds. He tugs at the waistband of Eddie’s shorts. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, suddenly breathless.

RIchie pays no mind, and gets his cock free. He moans low in his throat, kissing Eddie’s abdomen, wrapping a hand around his rapidly hardening cock. Shorts hanging low on his hips, Eddie plants a hand in Richie’s hair, knees suddenly weak and cock throbbing. “You can’t blow me in less than two minutes,” he gets out, and steps out of his shorts. 

“I’m not blowing you, I’m licking you, and also yes I could,” Richie says, swiping his tongue around the head of Eddie’s cock, making Eddie pull at his hair. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie’s hips, Eddie holding on for dear life as Richie sucks at his balls. He’s dripping with sweat down there, but Richie’s nose is in his neatly trimmed pubes and he’s making soft greedy noises low in his throat like he can’t get enough; his eyes are closed, his brow furrowed. He’s breathing hard—Eddie can feel the gusts of his breath—and his pants are tented. He moves one hand to press against his cock through his pants—

“Don’t,” Eddie tells him, and Richie puts that hand on Eddie’s hip, so quickly and unquestioningly that it makes Eddie’s cock pulse. Richie licks and sucks at the seam where Eddie’s leg meets his groin. It’s almost too much.

It’s all Eddie can do to look at the clock, remember where the hands were when he started timing Richie, and say “Time.” He yanks at Richie’s hair just slightly to pull him back and to let him go, and Richie sits on his heels, dazed and blinking up at him. Eddie picks up his shirt and shorts, and walks to the bathroom, painfully hard now, where he jerks off in the shower, thinking of those soft desperate hungry noises Richie made.

When he gets out, they don’t talk about it. Richie passes him to take his own shower, and they kiss briefly. Eddie can taste the salt of his own sweat on Richie’s mouth; a little shock goes through him because Richie hasn’t brushed his teeth yet, and that’s objectively gross, but the knowledge makes his cock throb even as he admonishes, “Brush your teeth, you just had my balls in your mouth. Jesus.” 

Richie winks and licks his lips, and Eddie feels himself blush. "Your Schweddy Balls," he intones, in his Alec Baldwin Voice. "Your Schweddy Eddie Balls. Schweddy Eddie Spaghetti Balls."

"Shut up." Eddie laughs outright before rinsing with some mouthwash and leaving the bathroom, feeling clean and refreshed and good. Better than he has in a long time. He always feels good, lately, with Richie, but.

Eddie knows Richie’s jerking off in the shower too, but he doesn’t mention it. He successfully fights off the temptation to go in and join him, although he couldn’t explain why, if he were asked.

The next morning, when he gets back inside from his run, once he’s stretched his quads he looks at Richie, who’s on the couch with his cereal again, watching him. 

“Hey,” Richie says.

“Two minutes,” Eddie says, toeing off his shoes, pulling off his shirt and walking toward him. 

Richie sets down his bowl and wraps his arms around him, pulling Eddie into his lap, kissing his neck, down his chest, licking into his armpit, making Eddie gasp, his cock throbbing insistently. Richie kisses him there and then licks into the other one, burying his nose in his sweat-wet hair, inhaling him. 

“One minute,” Eddie gets out, suddenly painfully hard.

Richie slides his tongue around Eddie’s nipples, Eddie’s hands tight in his hair, until Eddie calls time. He pulls off Eddie’s right nipple with a pop, and Eddie goes to shower, and jerk off.

They don’t talk about it this time, either.

The next morning, Eddie bends to stretch his hamstrings, touching his toes, and looks up at the clank of the bowl hitting the table to see Richie on his hands and knees, crawling to him. 

“Two minutes,” Eddie says as Richie tugs down his waistband. 

He leans against the wall, trying and failing to find something to grab onto there as Richie’s tongue slides down the sweaty crack of his ass, licks over his perineum, works its way inside him, Richie’s chin nudging behind his balls. Eddie moans, shaky, when Richie’s tongue gets deep, one hand reaching behind himself to take hold of Richie’s hair. He can’t see the clock here, and it’s a struggle to count the seconds in his mind. 

“Time,” he gasps out, tugging sharply, and Richie groans, muffled. 

Eddie comes so hard in the shower after this time, one finger up his ass, that he has to take a minute to come back to himself.

He sits on the floor of the foyer the next day to take off his shoes, and Richie crawls over to peel off his socks and kiss the soles of his feet, his heels, to suck the sweat from his toes until Eddie is panting and desperate to get his cock out of his tight shorts, which again he does on the way to shower alone, because even just two minutes of Richie treating him like he’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted is, still, almost too much.

His morning runs are underlined with anticipation now; he tries not to focus on it while he's out, although he’s frequently aware of it in the tip of his cock. Sometimes he goes right to the shower afterward, bypassing Richie with a quick verbal acknowledgement, feeling the weight of his gaze on him like a caress. He fights the urge to walk back out and drag Richie into the shower with him, and instead just keeps the desire to do so in his mind, and denies himself and Richie that and jerks off instead. He lets it ripen, lets it sweeten.

He takes the rest of these days like nothing’s unusual, and at night he wraps his arms around Richie in their bed and kisses him, and Richie responds to him immediately every time and valiantly tries at least something unless he’s totally exhausted. After all, they’re in their forties. Even then he’s full of apologies and doesn’t stop touching Eddie or wanting to be touched by him, whether it’s Eddie pressed against his back or Eddie’s arm over him.

Sex with Richie has always been good. He’d known it would be, even before they’d started having it. He knew it in his bones. And at this point, Richie _knows_ him—knows what makes him sob, what makes him clutch at his back, what makes him shiver and shake and cry out. 

Richie knows him.

One morning Eddie walks in, takes off his shoes, pulls off his shirt, takes off his shorts as he walks toward Richie on the couch, and tugs him to the floor. He pulls off Richie’s shirt, and kisses him.

“Two minutes?” Richie asks, low, getting hurriedly out of his sleep pants, gasping as Eddie wraps a hand around his rapidly hardening cock. Richie leans in to kiss his neck, starting to lick at his skin.

“No limit,” Eddie decides. “Fuck me,” he tells Richie, who blinks like Eddie poked him between the eyes. Eddie lets him go to root around in a drawer of the table for a bottle of lube and hand it to him. Eddie knows he’s planning to slick up his fingers first, and that’s sweet, but…. “Just fuck me, please, sweetheart, I need you.” He can see Richie’s face go a little slack. 

Richie hurries to coat his cock with lube, and Eddie wraps his legs around Richie’s hips and sighs low and long as he sinks in. It’s uncomfortable, but that’s what he wants; he wants to feel himself quickly getting used to Richie. 

“You fill me up so good,” he murmurs, cupping his jaw, and Richie makes a soft broken sound low in his throat. For all Eddie’s known to talk a lot, he still finds it hard to say things like that; for all they’re true, they don’t feel natural—yet—to him, although it hasn’t escaped his notice how eager Richie is to hear them.

Richie fucks him on the living room floor, the both of them slick with Eddie’s sweat and now Richie’s as well. Richie presses his face into Eddie’s neck, panting, Eddie clutching at his back with one hand and tugging at his hair with the other. He can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be, right now, not even necessarily their bed, or anything else he’d rather be doing. The floor beneath him isn’t exactly soft, but he barely cares. 

“Eddie,” Richie moans, broken, breathing hard. 

Eddie closes his eyes tightly for a moment, and swallows. “I love you so fucking much, Rich,” he gasps out, hard cock pulsing between them. He moves the hand on Richie’s back to wrap around himself, tight. 

He knows if he’d have given Richie a limit, he’d have met it. If he told Richie to last as long as possible, he would. He could make Richie draw it out until they both couldn’t stand it any longer. He knows Richie would do anything to please him. He wants to make him prove it, over and over again. 

But now, he just wants him to come.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he mutters in Richie’s ear now, “come for me,” and tightens his legs around Richie and pulls locks of his hair.

As if helpless now to stop himself now, Richie curses and writhes and comes, shuddering. Eddie comes moments after, at the feeling of Richie inside him, filling him, big and hot over him, breathing hard.

“You’ve got me trained,” Richie murmurs later, ruefully amused, having pulled out of Eddie but still lying on him at Eddie’s behest, Eddie’s legs framing his hips and Eddie’s fingers running through his sweat-damp hair. Richie’s face is still pressed into the curve of Eddie’s neck where it meets his shoulder. “I could lick you all over in two minutes flat by now, I think, but it wouldn’t be enough time. I could fucking do that forever.” His low voice rumbles through his chest and through Eddie beneath him. 

Eddie laughs softly. “Fuck, you’re so weird,” he murmurs, fond.

“Mm.” Richie doesn’t argue.

Eddie’s quiet for a moment, a little shiver at the thought of that—not the _forever_ part, since that’s just hyperbole and literally impossible, just… at getting a glimpse of Richie’s desire for him, his… _greed_ for him. It’s not something he’s ever had from anyone other than Richie, and he hadn’t even been aware, he realizes, of the extent of it. 

He thinks, though, that he understands, as he looks at Richie's broad shoulders, feeling the urge to bite them, to dig his blunt nails in, to leave some mark of ownership. He knows Richie is his, but how good it would be to see proof of it. 

The thrill of getting, without even really trying, Richie to be still, to focus (on him), to wait for his cue: maybe it’s an ego trip, Eddie thinks, but figures at this point in his life that if it is, he deserves it, after so many years of being told who and what he was, what he could and couldn’t do. Richie’s always been like this with him, the only one who ever was.

Besides, and most importantly, it—he—makes Richie happy.

“How did this even start?” he wonders aloud, half to himself.

“I dunno.” Richie shrugs, voice a little lowered and bashful. And that’s something, Richie Tozier being bashful. “I just see you coming in after your run all sweaty and shit, and I’m fucking hard enough to pound nails.” 

“I didn’t really get that at first,” Eddie admits. “Maybe I still don’t really get it now.”

Richie’s quiet for a moment and then he says, face still pressed against Eddie’s skin, “You don’t get that I could want you that much?"

“Yeah, I mean… I’m sweaty, I’m gross.”

“You’re so hot after you run, God. I mean, you're hot all the time, but. And I think you kinda like that it’s gross,” Richie says, narrowing his eyes. 

“I do?” Eddie scratches idly at Richie’s scalp, Richie rubs his face on his skin in reaction, somehow catlike, stubble scraping him.

“I do.”

“Go on.”

“I think,” Richie says, “that you like that you’re, quote, _gross_ and I still can’t get enough of you.”

“Oh yeah, is that right?”

“Yeah.” Richie sighs, cornered into an admittance. He says, low, “Want you more than anything, Eds, always have,” and sighs again. “When we were teenagers I would’ve stolen your dirty clothes in a heartbeat and jerked off with them if I’d thought you wouldn’t have noticed.”

Eddie’s struck by an image of a teenage Richie, in his bed with his back arched, eyes screwed shut, one of Eddie’s polo shirts or his briefs or a pair of his shorts in his hand, wrapped around his cock. Richie’s face flushed pink as he comes sticky on the fabric, biting his lip to stifle any sounds. 

“If you want to jerk off with my clothes now, you can,” he offers, and Richie’s cheeks go pink. “I’m just saying,” he adds. “Rinse the come off afterwards, and—” Richie quiets him with a kiss, and his breathing’s a little shaky. Eddie imagines his workout clothes sticky with Richie’s come, in piles on the floor, imagines how seeing it will get him hard and lead to some sort of recursive vicious sex cycle where he can’t get enough of Richie’s being unable to get enough of him. 

“Fuck, Richie,” he sighs against his mouth. Richie doesn’t ask what he means; he hums like he’s caught up in it too, like he too can’t believe how it is for them. 

“You’re not gross, by the way,” Richie does add, soft. “You’re you, and I love you.” 

He’s said it before, but Eddie’s never over how shy he sounds when he says it, like he’s afraid it won’t be accepted, even though Eddie just said it to Richie himself in no uncertain terms. Seconds later, like he can’t let that just stay out there in the air, Richie blows a raspberry on his damp skin; Eddie laughs, batting at him to get him to raise up, and shifts to nip gently at Richie’s shoulder. Richie shivers at that, making a soft noise, and Eddie tightens his arms around him once more, wanting to never let him go.

“Shower,” Eddie whispers, a smile in his voice, although he doesn’t move and he’s in no particular hurry to get in the shower just yet, even as sweaty and sticky as he is, and as much as he wants to feel the hot water soothing his sore muscles. But at least Richie will be with him there, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy The Stooges.


End file.
